


I Can Feel You Falling Away

by wuxxia



Category: The 100
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Reaper Bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 10:25:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3324095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuxxia/pseuds/wuxxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-divergent AU where Bellamy is selected for the Cerberus program instead of harvest.  After Clarke and Lexa rescue the prisoners from Mount Weather, Lincoln finds Bellamy roaming the tunnels and brings him back to Camp Jaha.  </p><p>Only time will tell if he can survive the detox.  No matter what, things will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my amazing beta [beermestrengths](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beermestrengths/pseuds/beermestrengths) for her help with this story. <3 you babe!

_Dead star shine_  
_Light up the sky_  
_I'm all out of breath_  
_My walls are closing in_  
_Days go by_  
_Give me a sign_  
_Come back to the end_

It's too much. She needs some air.

Clarke bites down on her bottom lip to contain the scream rising in her throat. _Not Bellamy_. Hot tears stream freely down her face, blurring her vision completely. _Love is weakness. It’s worth the risk._ Except it wasn’t. Of course not, it never was. Not when Lincoln returned two days ago, alone. The words, “they took him” felt like a punch in the gut, giving life to the lingering fears Clarke had pushed to the back of her mind. She was only too grateful that the Commander had actually listened to her even though she knew Lexa could see the weakness shining wet in her lashes. Without the Grounders’ help, they never would have been able to get him back.

It’s a wonder they even agreed to bring him back. Indra’s first instinct, as always, was to kill; not that Clarke would have allowed it. And when she remembers the gore smeared across his face and the way he looked straight through her with death in his dark eyes, she wonders if they’ll be able to bring him back from this. If he’ll ever be the same.

_Some things are worse than death._

The sound of Octavia’s voice, raw and thick with tears, is what brings her back to the present. She attempts to compose herself, wiping her own tears with the edge of one sleeve and doing her best to even out her breathing.  

“Come on, Clarke,” Octavia says again, placing her hand on the blonde’s shoulder. “He needs you now.”

Clarke gives a short nod and turns away from the tree line and the soothing sounds that always come after sunset. _They’re crickets_ , he’d told her once when they’d found themselves alone with the chirping insects in the quiet green darkness. The sound brought back those happy memories, before they knew any danger beyond basic survival. She and Octavia walk the few yards back to Camp Jaha’s intimidating gates where two uniformed guards are standing watch, then toward the containment room usually reserved for prisoners. Tonight, it would also be a makeshift clinic.

Lincoln is hovering outside the metal doors, still in his battle-stained clothes and fading war paint. His solemn expression turns all soft eyes when he sees Octavia. He wraps his huge arms around her thin shoulders, pulling her close and making soothing sounds in her ear when she crumbles against him. Clarke can hear faint music from the other side of camp where most of her people are loudly celebrating the return of forty-five delinquents. At least it wasn’t all for nothing. No matter what happens, it was because of Bellamy that they brought their people home today.  

“Is he restrained?” she asks.

Lincoln meets her eyes and nods, they’re ready for her.

Her boots sound too loud on the metal floor when she enters the room. Even though she was part of his rescue and helped bring him in herself, the sight of Bellamy chained down to the bed like an animal has hot tears springing to her eyes all over again. 

_How did I let this happen?_

He looks like he’s been dragged through hell—his hair is matted and mixed with blood so that it sticks to his forehead. A long gash over his left eyebrow is still bleeding heavily, painting one side of his face deadly red. Lincoln had hit him hard to knock him out. Other than the cut that needs stitching, Bellamy seems relatively unharmed at first glance. 

_Unless you count the Reaper drugs coursing through his veins_.

Clarke approaches him slowly, one hand extended like a peace offering out of instinct. She meets his eyes—they’re dark and red-rimmed—and for a moment he just lays there with his face contorted into a grotesque expression, almost vibrating under her gaze. Clarke jumps when he jerks suddenly against the chains, releasing a guttural scream and straining towards her. This isn’t Bellamy, not anymore; she knows she can’t bring him back through strength of will. 

“You're gonna to have to hold him,” she says to Nyko. She looks around for his helper, Eam, but he must’ve slipped out when she wasn’t looking. “Or get someone who can. I need to stitch that cut on his head.” The need to do something, anything, is overwhelming.

“Can't you just knock him out?” he asks, moving toward Bellamy without hesitation.

“I would,” she replies as she splashes moonshine over her hands, “but I’m not sure he can handle it. We need my mother.” Clarke does her best to hide the tremor in her voice and the shaking of her hands.

“Eam will bring her,” Nyko reassures her.

She nods, pulling up a chair and setting her suture supplies down on the makeshift table.

“Can you hold him?” she asks, but the healer is already placing his hands on either side of Bellamy’s face to still his thrashing head.

When Bellamy looks at her, his eyes are so dark she can’t distinguish the pupil from the iris. His hollow gaze reminds her of Finn, that first day when the dead boy followed her everywhere, just _staring_.

 _I did this. It was never worth the risk_.

She drowns the sob that threatens to escape her throat with a long swig from the jar of moonshine, then pours the alcohol over his forehead in one quick motion, shielding his eyes with her rag-wrapped hand. Bellamy’s breath comes fast and harsh through flaring nostrils and bared teeth. His scream leaves her right ear ringing—she feels it like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

“Shhhh, Bell,” she croons, even though there are tears rolling down her cheeks as she cleans the wound. “We’re gonna get this cleaned up, okay?” Of course, her words can’t soothe him—it’s not him, she reminds herself, this beast he’s become; _the beast they’ve made of him_. She begins her work, deftly placing the stitches over his brow and doing her best to pretend that this isn’t happening, that she’s anywhere else, putting stitches into anyone except the man she loves, _the man she sent to die._

She's not even halfway through when Abby comes bursting into the room, followed by Octavia and Lincoln.

“Oh God, Clarke,” Abby exclaims at the sight of them. Though he’s restrained, Bellamy’s thrashing makes the stitching long and tedious work. Nyko’s holding Bellamy down in what’s basically a headlock at this point, and Clarke is doing her best to stitch around his bulky arm with his enormous shadow obscuring her light.

Abby meets Clarke’s eye and places her hand on Octavia’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she tells them both at once. Clarke snips one last stitch and stands, fixing her mother with the same glare she’s been using on her since the Ark crash-landed on the ground.

“Don’t be sorry. Just _fix_ him,” she pleads, and though her voice cracks, she does not allow herself to fall apart.

This seems to remind Abby that she’s here as a doctor, not as a mother. “Of course.” She moves closer, inspecting the still-bleeding cut and Clarke’s handiwork. “The stitching would go much quicker if you sedated him first.” She’s rummaging around on the table for a syringe.

“I _know_ that, but I didn’t want to try it until you had a chance to check him. Can his heart handle the sedative? If he’s too weak—”

Abby shushes her and makes quick work of taking his pulse, shining a flashlight in his eyes, and checking his neck, wrists and the insides of his elbows for needle marks. The only sounds in the tense air are Octavia’s hiccuping sobs, the rattle of chains, and Bellamy’s snarls. Clarke tracks her mother’s deft movements and wrings her hands—she can feel her entire body vibrating with suspense. _I did this. This is my fault. I sent him to die._

“Will he make it?” Octavia asks hoarsely.

“I can’t say,” Abby replies grimly. “It doesn’t look like he’s been this way as long as Lincoln was, but it’s hard to tell—there are a lot of needle tracks here, old and new.”

“But you're still going to inject him?”Clarke asks flatly.

“It’s his best chance. The sedative won’t just knock him out. It will also slow his heart rate.” She fills the syringe in one smooth motion. “You remember how this goes, Clarke. The heart speeds up toward the end of the detox.” Abby’s gaze falls on Lincoln, who stands a few feet away with one arm around Octavia and glassy eyes. Not too long ago, he was the one in chains.

“But if you do, and his heart is too weak, the sedative could kill him." It's not a question, she knows it.

Her mother shoots her a pitiful look. “If I don’t, his heart could stop anyway.”

“Do it.” Octavia says, stepping forward and shooting Clarke a look that says _don’t you dare argue with me on this_. It’s a look she’s seen on Bellamy’s face more times than she can count, and she feels his absence like an ache in her chest when she registers Octavia’s seamless acceptance of her brother's role as co-leader.

“Bellamy’s my brother. We have to try.”

Abby nods her approval. “Clarke, you have to trust me,” she says simply.

Never mind the fact that Clarke hasn’t trusted her mother since the day Wells told her the truth about her father’s death.

Before she can argue any further, Abby injects the sedative into a bulging vein at Bellamy’s neck. For a few long moments they watch him struggle against the restraints, grunting and screaming, until finally his movements begin to slow. When his eyes finally close, Nyko steps forward and checks for a pulse. Clarke can hear her own heartbeat whooshing in her ears. _I can’t lose you too. Please, Bellamy. Don’t leave me._

“He’s alive.”

Clarke lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. _Alive._ Clarke and Octavia rush forward, crowding the bed.

"Hey Bell," Octavia whispers, taking his hand and bringing it to her lips. "It's gonna be okay, big brother. I won't let anything happen to you."

Clarke pushes back the hair stuck to his forehead, drenched in sweat. His skin feels incredibly hot, hotter than it was when she was stitching him only a few minutes ago.

“Mom, wait,” she says, feeling his forehead, the side of his neck. “He’s too hot.” Abby puts the needle back on the table. “Look.”

As if on cue, the convulsions begin. Bellamy’s chest jerks upwards at odd intervals, and foam begins to roll out of the corner of his mouth. The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle noisily with his movements. Nyko is there, holding Bellamy’s head to one side, and Octavia's fingernails dig into Clarke's shoulder. It seems to go on for so long that Clarke feels like she’s watching him move in slow motion, paralyzed, helpless.

When his eyes roll back into his head, the edges of her vision go blurry with tears. There is a sick choking noise and then suddenly it’s quiet, too quiet.

She feels for a pulse at his neck, but there is none.

“He’s not breathing!” she tells them, and it feels like she isn't either. The panic rising in her chest is like balloon being inflated, crushing her lungs, her heart.

Octavia leans over the bed, running her hands over his bloodstained face, touching his hair. "No, Bell. No," she sobs over and over, voice breaking as tears drip from the tip of her nose.

_I can't lose him too._

“Quick, the shocklash—” Clarke holds out her hand, but her mother meets her gaze and shakes her head, wrapping her own fingers around the handle.

She holds her breath when Abby brings the hot-blue shocklash down on his chest, but she doesn’t close her eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

_No longer the lost_  
_No longer the same_  
_And I can see you starting to break_  
_I'll keep you alive_  
_If you show me the way_  
_Forever and ever_  
_The scars will remain_  


It takes Bellamy a few moments to register reality—his vision is fuzzy, but he’s sure this is his cot, his tent. The rumpled blankets feel familiar under his fingers.

People had rolled their eyes when he lugged a weathered tent out to Camp Jaha and made his own camp, halfway between the fence and the sleeping quarters that the few surviving engineers had arranged from what was left of Mecha Station. It wasn’t the same as his old tent, the one from the drop ship that went up in flames, but it was better than sleeping in a metal box.

He smiles at the comfort of being in his own cot. Even with the throbbing pain in his head, this is the best he’s felt in what seems like forever. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, relishing the earthy smells of wet soil and pine needles that mean he’s home.

_Home._

In his worst moments, he had dreamed—hallucinated, more like—about fighting it, about leaving the tunnels and heading back to camp, _their_ camp, the one they had built out of scrap metal and green wood back at the dropship. He’d tried, but it was impossible to fight the Red.

Bellamy worries that maybe this is just a wonderful, convincing dream until he feels Clarke’s hair tickling his arm. He blinks groggily at her. She’s sitting on a metal stool with her head pillowed on her arms, next to his thigh. Blonde curls spill out around her head like a halo. A calloused hand finds the warmth at her temple, stroking her hair back with his thumb. _We made it_.

He jumps a little when Clarke suddenly sits up, blue eyes wide and red rimmed.

“Bellamy?!” A smile spreads across her face until they’re both grinning.

“Clarke.” Her smile is infectious; he can’t remember the last time he smiled like this. When she throws her arms around his shoulders, she’s all soft curves and sleepy warmth. Bellamy buries his nose in the crook of her neck and squeezes her back, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. He holds her as tightly as his injuries will allow for a long time, relishing her familiar smell, the softness of her breasts against his chest, and the tickle of her hair at his jaw. When she finally pulls away, her eyes are bright with tears.

“You made it,” she says softly, pressing her forehead to his. “I knew you would.”

Bellamy lets his hands linger on her shoulders, their foreheads tipped together. He feels his face heat when his eyes fall to her mouth. For a moment, he wonders what would happen if he leaned in and kissed her. Maybe Clarke sees the thought pass over his face, like a shadow, or maybe he does lean forward until his mouth is just a breath away from her lips, because it’s all too visible the moment she closes down, pulling away. She stands and smoothes her hair out of her face. When she meets his eyes again, the walls are back up. Her eyes are dry and flat.

“I should tell Octavia you’re up,” she says, drawing her mouth into a straight line. “She’s been worried sick, you know.” She turns to leave.

“It was worth the risk,” he says softly. Clarke pauses at the words, but she doesn’t turn around. Bellamy sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back into the blankets. His eyes feel heavy and hot with fatigue. When he opens them, she’s already gone.

* * * * *

Raven finds Clarke just outside the gate, sitting with her back to camp. It’s an unseasonably warm day for fall. The afternoon sun lights on the changing leaves so that the reds seem redder, the oranges more vibrant. Clarke seems to be deep in thought, meticulously ripping blades of grass in half.

“You seem busy,” Raven says without preamble. Clarke nods, but she doesn’t look up. “I thought I might find you out here.”

Clarke tosses the blade of grass and picks another. “You should go see him.”

“I just stopped over there, actually. He seems good, tired though.” Silence hangs awkwardly between them for a few moments. “I saw you taking off yesterday, so I figured he had to be awake—considering you hadn't left that tent for two days.”

Clarke hums a wordless response. It’s stupid really, Raven thinks. Clarke had demanded that Bellamy be moved to his own tent and had seen it done herself, despite her mother’s orders that he stay in the clinic. And she hadn’t left that tent, or eaten, or slept properly until he woke. Now, she made every excuse to stay _out_ of the tent. Clarke had sent Abby to check his vitals. Octavia, Monroe, Miller and even Murphy took turns with Raven keeping him company throughout the day. Every time Raven went in there, he asked for Clarke. Of course he did.

Raven sighs and rolls her eyes, wondering why she thought this talk, or whatever it is, would be a good idea. But she still moves to sit beside Clarke, favoring her bad leg. Sitting on the ground is a slow process, but the blonde has enough sense not to offer to help.  They sit together in silence for a while, and though it's not as awkward as it was at first, it isn't exactly comfortable either.

“Look, Clarke,” Raven begins, louder and more firmly than before. “I know that what it’s like to lose the person you love. And I know how much you cared about—about Finn.” She swallows the lump forming in her throat, ignoring the prick of tears behind her eyes. It’ll get better, she knows, but she hates how her voice falters whenever she says his name.

Clarke finally meets her eyes. “Raven, you don't have to—”

“Shut up and let me talk.” She takes a deep breath to steady her voice before continuing. “My point is that Finn is dead, but Bellamy isn't. He's _alive_. You _saved_ him."

“I sent him to _die_!” Clarke counters, her eyes blue and bright with emotion.

“He volunteered, Clarke,” Raven says, placing a hand over Clarke’s clenched fist. “He asked to be the inside man before you ever agreed to it. He wanted to go. You didn't do this—this isn't your fault.”

Raven holds her gaze until the other girl looks down at the grass.

“When he told me his plan, the first time—I asked him not to go. I basically begged him, Raven. And he was going to listen to me, I know he was.”

Raven snorts. “I hate to break it to you, but Bellamy doesn’t listen to anyone but himself.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that I sent him away,” Clarke mumbles.

“You can’t avoid him forever. He’s gonna get better, and when he does you’ll be the first person he wants to see.” Raven braces a hand on Clarke’s shoulder to stand, brushing the grass off her pants.

“Bellamy’s alive, Clarke. Pull your head out of your ass and go talk to him. And be thankful you still have time.” Clarke’s head pops up at that, and Raven shoots her a scathing look. “Not all of us are so lucky.”

Clarke listens to Raven’s footsteps fade, hears the guards’ far-off voices when they open the gate. She sits on the hill facing the tree line, picking grass with wet cheeks, until the sky grows pink with sunset.

* * * * *

The sound of crickets vibrates through the air as she walks through camp toward her tent, which unfortunately for her is pitched behind Bellamy’s, a little to the right. She takes the long way around in the hopes that he won’t hear her because she knows he is the lightest of sleepers.

In the end, it doesn’t matter, because Bellamy stands waiting in the shadowy half-light when she pushes back the flap and steps inside her tent.  

“I brought you dinner,” he says softly, his back to her. He’s dressed in his old clothes, the baggy cargo pants, a paper thin t-shirt with holes around the neckline. The strap of a sling cuts across his back, and Clarke’s surprised he’s actually using it. His hair looks clean, and shorter, too; the ends curl around his ears.

“Uh, thanks,” she says softly. She knows she should eat, but honestly, he’s the last person who should be worrying about her, injured as he is.

“What’s that?” Clarke asks when he doesn’t turn around. She swallows her apprehension and moves to stand beside him, then flushes when she sees her sketchbook open on the table next to the plate of food he brought for her.

It’s a pencil sketch of Bellamy asleep on the cot, one of the better ones from before he woke up. She’d focused mainly on his face, rendering the tender, childlike expression of sleep in dark blues and greens, absent his injuries. He looks whole in the drawing, safe, at peace. Bellamy’s fingers ghost over the lines, just barely touching the page.

“Where'd you get that?” Clarke asks defensively, reaching for the sketchbook. Bellamy catches her hand to keep her from closing the book, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he curls his long fingers in between hers. His hands are rough and warm.

“It was next to my pillow when I woke up,” he replies. He looks down at her with dark eyes, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I thought you left it on purpose.”

“Raven,” Clarke mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes. She knew the older girl had caught her sketching Bellamy on more than on occasion—she was one of the few who got even less sleep than Clarke did. She and Raven has always respected each other’s privacy though, so she had never considered the possibility that her friend would violate that trust. _What, like it’s a secret?_ She can almost hear Raven laughing as she says the words. So maybe she wasn’t being as subtle as she thought.

“How long have you been drawing me?” he asks softly, releasing her hand so he can flip through the sketchbook. As if she needs a reminder of just how many times she’s sketched Bellamy Blake.

Clarke’s stomach does a flip—watching him look at her art, really look at it, it’s like he’s seeing her naked for the first time. She’s thankful he probably can’t see her blushing in the weak light of one small lantern. But there is no accusation in his voice, just a raw curiosity, a tenderness Clarke has rarely seen toward anyone but his sister, and that helps.

“Probably since Finn gave me those pencils,” she says softly. It feels strange to say his name out loud; maybe this is the first time she has. But Bellamy’s standing strong beside her, so close that her knuckles graze his pant leg. She can feel the warmth of his body in the chill of the tent. Clarke swallows, continues, “I think I started a little after that, after we went on that day trip, when Dax tried to kill you.”

“These are really good,” he says, stopping to look at another page. They weren’t all of him. He paused to examine a particularly detailed sketch of Miller cleaning his gun, spread out on the floor of the dropship. The next one was of him and Octavia—Clarke had captured the striking resemblance between them in profile, brows furrowed, mouths set, the defiant tilt of Octavia’s chin as she looked up at her brother. They had to have been arguing about something.

“You guys look alike, you know,” she says quietly, tracing the lines of their noses, their chins. They stand in silence, examining the page.  Her breath hitches when Bellamy’s hand closes over hers.

“I'm sorry, he says after a moment. “I didn't—I let you down.” He’s still looking down at their hands, curled together over the book on the table. “I let them down. Jasper, Harper. They were counting on me, and I didn’t make it.”

“No, Bellamy,” Clarke begins, feeling her chest constrict at the pained look on his face. She brings her free hand to his cheek; it’s rough with stubble and hot under her, cold, cold fingers. Clarke runs her thumb over his cheekbone, willing him to look at her. When he meets her gaze, his eyes are dark with emotion.

 _After all of this, he blames himself_.

“I'm the one who should be sorry,” Clarke feels tears pricking behind her eyes. Her hand drops to his bad shoulder and he winces, so she places it on his chest and she leaves it there, closing the space between them. “I said it was worth the risk, but I was wrong.” Her tears are flowing freely now but it doesn’t matter because he’s _here_ , he’s _alive_ and warm and standing right in front of her.

“Nothing is worth that to me, Bellamy. Nothing is worth the risk of losing you! I told you before that I couldn't lose you too and I meant that, I just... I can't be selfish with you. I need to do what's best for everyone, and I _thought—_ ”

“Clarke, you’re far from selfish” he tells her, his voice low and rough. “You’re one of the most selfless people I know. There was a time when I thought that you didn't have what it takes to make the hard choices, but you do, Clarke, and you did good.”

She shakes her head, unconvinced. “You didn’t have to go in there. When you went missing, we found another way in—we should have tried that in the first place. I didn’t have to send you in there.”

“I wanted to go, I wanted to be the inside man,” he tells her, raising his voice. He seems almost angry. “What happened to me _isn’t your fault_.”

“Bellamy, you _died_."  Clarke’s voice cracks on the word, and she’s yelling at him now.  "We had to shock lash you _five times_ to bring you back to life!  Do you know what that felt like, watching you die, knowing that it was me who told you to go?” A sob escapes from the back of her throat, and now’s she’s sobbing in earnest, wet ugly sounds that she never wanted him to hear.

Bellamy wraps his good arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his chest, whispering soothing sounds in her ear.

“Shhh, Clarke, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Clarke clings to him, her cheek pressed to his chest. He holds her close for a long moment, his arm tight around her shoulders, and lets her cry until her sobs subside and her breathing evens out. She’s comforted by the strength of his body, the warmth and the sound of his heartbeat— _alive_. Once she’s calmed down, she registers the closeness of their bodies with a fluttering stomach, and her pulse quickens. Heat pools in her belly when she meets his eyes and she speaks before she can change her mind.

“I thought—someone told me that love is weakness, Bellamy. I wanted to be strong for you, for them, for Finn. I didn’t want him to die for nothing.” She swallows hard against the new tears pooling in her eyes. “But I’m not strong—I’m _weak._ ”

Bellamy’s lips are warm and dry when he kisses her, softly at first. Clarke blinks in surprise, then presses forward, opening her mouth to deepen the kiss. Warmth blooms in her chest when he responds in kind, running his tongue over her lips and holding her tightly against his chest. When she finally pulls away, her cheeks are flushed and they’re both breathless.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to [ahubofhuntersandangels](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ahubofhuntersandangels/pseuds/ahubofhuntersandangels) for her help with part two. Your support is so important to me!
> 
> Also want to give a giant thank you and a hug to those who read and commented on part one. I'm sorry it was such a long wait for part two; I hope it's awesome enough to make up for that.

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user bbeellaammyy, who requested a hurt/comfort fic. This isn't exactly what you prompted, but I hope you like it anyway bb!
> 
> All lyrics from "Give me a Sign" by Breaking Benjamin.


End file.
